CURE (A Strandville Zombie Novel)

by Frisch, Belinda

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because there are worse things out there than Nixon.”

  20.

  Scott woke up in the passenger’s seat of his pewter H2 with a headache that sparked fireworks in his vision. The sun, even through the tinted windows, forced its way into his squinted eyes and burned like a searing hot poker. He lifted his hand to the lump at the base of his skull and winced when he touched it. The blood mixed with his bristly hair to form a thick scab, the damp center of which had not dried yet.

  Nixon’s chatter kept Scott distracted, and while he regretted not heading off Reid’s attack, it confirmed Miranda’s location.

  He looked around to get his bearings.

  Okay, where the hell did you drop me off, psycho?

  Porters, the small convenience store he passed on his trip into town, was just up ahead. He couldn’t help smirking when he saw the sign: Thank you for visiting Strandville. We hope you enjoyed your stay.

  “Hardly.”

  Reid had driven him to the town line as a not so subtle hint.

  Scott adjusted the driver’s seat, hit Nixon Center in his recently found GPS locations, and had barely turned around when the truck sputtered and stalled.

  “If you wanted me to leave,” he said, “you should have left me gas.”

  He shifted into park and started the walk to Porter’s.

  * * * * *

  Zach turned the corner into Allison’s empty hospital room. Every floral arrangement and personal effect was gone. The smell of disinfectant and the clean, taut sheets on the bed said that Allison wasn’t coming back.

  He double-checked the room number though he could have walked to it in his sleep. Panic gripped him and he ran his hands through his hair, trying not to cry.

  What had he started? Somehow he knew this was all to do with what Clarence told him about Mitch.

  Nixon appeared in the doorway. “Please come with me.”

  Zach was so deep in worry that he hadn’t heard Nixon’s approach. He let his hands down and forced himself to stay calm. He would never find his wife without him. “Where is Allison? Is she all right?”

  “She is. Please come with me. It’s time we talk.”

  Zach followed Nixon to the stairwell and down to the first floor elevator. Awkward silence compounded the tension. “Why are we going to the basement?”

  Please don’t let Allison be there.

  Nixon held up his hand for Zach to be quiet. Two women passed by carrying flowers and balloons that said Get well soon.

  The elevator door opened and Zach went in, holding his breath all the way down. His stomach knotted and he couldn’t think straight. He was terrified of what Nixon was taking him to see.

  Nixon’s demeanor remained flat even as he approached the cell and gestured for Zach to look inside. “There’s been an accident.”

  Clarence cowered in the corner. White film formed over his bulging eyes and contrasted his dark skin like the narrow ends of two eggs rising from his skull.

  Zach held his hand to his mouth, regretting ever asking about Mitch.

  This is entirely my fault.

  “The change is painfully slow,” Nixon said, the fact seeming to please more than upset him.

  Clarence rolled onto his knees and vomited a small pool of blood. His back arched like a cat’s and he howled in pain, sweat glistening on his skin.

  He’s feeling every bit of this.

  Zach turned away, unable to watch any more.

  Nixon had proven his point.

  “Come with me.” Nixon stopped at the Control Room scanner. “Travis is going to need help.” Nixon typed in his security code to program it. “Put your hand here, please.”

  The only thing to do was to comply. He placed his palm on the scanner, a green light came on, and the door opened. Access granted.

  Travis sat in the corner facing away from the wall of monitors tuned into Clarence’s cell. His eyes were rimmed red and his posture slumped.

  “You’ll let me know when he’s finished changing, won’t you?” Nixon asked.

  Travis sniffled. “Yes, sir.”

  Nixon went to Travis and turned his chair. “You’ll need to watch to know when that is.”

  Travis tilted his head and watched the painful transition in his periphery.

  The twisted, sick bastard. How long had Nixon made him watch this?

  This didn’t bode well for Allison. Zach’s thoughts drifted to her vacated room. “What did you do with my wife?”

  Travis looked up.

  Nixon flipped a switch and the new location appeared on the monitors. “I relocated her for the time being, but I’m certain she isn’t aware.” Allison’s room had been replicated almost exactly except for that the blinds were closed, concealing anything that might clue him into where she was. She appeared comfortably asleep, but nothing at the center was as it appeared. She could be sedated.

  “Why did you move her?”

  “Her reaction to the treatment makes it unsafe for her to be mixed with the other patients.”

  “What reaction?” Zach’s contempt broke through in spite of his desperate attempt for it not to.

  Nixon narrowed his eyes. “The kind that if not carefully controlled could be painful.” He flipped the switch back and tapped the monitor showing Clarence’s cell.

  Blood ran from Clarence’s ears and nose. He pressed his head to the floor and pounded his fists against the white tile. Urine pooled around him.

  “I want to see my wife.” Zach said tearfully.

  Nixon opened the Control Room door. “I’m afraid that just isn’t possible.”

  21.

  “Are you all right?” A heavy-set woman wearing a black and red plaid hunting shirt held a gauze pad to the back of Scott’s head with a fair amount of pressure. “You gave us a helluva scare.”

  Scott leaned forward and looked at the pimple-faced teen across from him. The young man’s face was battered, bruised, and stitched. “Where am I?” He took in the cluttered back room of a log cabin-like store.

  “Porter’s,” the kid said, his severe expression hard to read. “You passed out’n our parkin’ lot.”

  Porters. To get gas. Slowly, things came back.

  Scott brushed a stray shard of gravel from his cheek. “I have to go.” He set his hands on the table and when he tried to stand up, his legs tried to crumble under his weight.

  The woman steadied him and coaxed him back into the chair. “I don’t think you should get up just yet.” The kid handed Scott a plastic cup of water.

  “What’s your name?” the woman asked.

  “Scott. Scott Penton.” He took a sip.

  “Name’s Maggie Porter and this’s my nephew, Billy.”

  Billy wore a pair of ratty jeans, an oversized tee-shirt, and a jacket with an ax and fireman’s hat over the words Strandville Fire Department. “Glad to meet you.” He shook their hands and then squeezed his aching head, the veins pulsing at his temples.

  “That was quite a header you took,” Maggie said. “What were you thinkin’ drivin’ with your head split open?”

  The curtain serving as the door to the back room opened and a broad man with a ruddy complexion and thick, calloused hands walked through it. He handed frozen peas and a box of steri-strips to Maggie. “This is the closest thing I could find to an ice pack.”

  Maggie held the bag to Scott’s head. He leaned in to the soothing cold and only pulled away when the pressure intensified the pain. “Scott, this is my husband, Jack. Jack, Scott Penton.”

  Jack furrowed his brow in contemplation. “Penton, huh? Don’t recognize the name. What brings you to Strandville?”

  Scott handed him a picture of Miranda from out of his wallet. “I came looking for my wife.”

  “Oh, boy,” Jack said somberly. He turned the photograph over to Billy. “Remember her?”

  Billy nodded, his thin, greasy bangs falling in front of his face.

  “You’ve seen her?” S
cott leaned forward and the scab forming on the back of his head pulled his hair, making him wince.

  Maggie took the cold peas away. “We’re going to have to clean this and close it up.”

  Still, no one had asked how it happened. Part of him believed it was because they already knew.

  Billy brushed his hair back and met Scott’s gaze. “You ‘member how you got to the other side of the town line?”

  He did know.

  “Of course I do.” Scott lied. He flinched when Maggie poured peroxide into his wound. She held a paper towel to his neck to catch the runoff and reapplied it several more times, each time stinging worse than the one before it. The bubbling and popping sound echoed in Scott’s head, fast at first, then steadily slower. “What do you know about my wife?” he asked, focusing on Jack.

  “She came in for gas maybe a week ago. Said she got a job here and moved up from the city, but she didn’t mention a husband.”

  Scott lowered his head and Maggie raised his chin, drying the freshly cleaned wound. “You’re going to have to keep still if you want these steri-strips to hold. They’re not as good as stitches, but they’ll hold you until you can get to the Nixon Center for proper care.”

  Scott bristled at the mention. “The Nixon Center? Are you kidding me? That’s how this happened in the first place. The job Miranda came for was at the center. There’s something wrong there.”

  Billy perked up, his eyes wide with interest.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Maggie said. “That center’s the reason half the people in this town have any medical care at all.”

  “It’s also the reason the women are missing.”

  Jack shook his head. “Listen, City. I’ll cut you some slack because you’re new in town and I think that knock to your noggin mighta jarred something loose. Sometimes people want away from a situation. I’m not speculating on your relationship, but I did notice that your wife wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Women have gone missing around here, but they’re young, reckless, and have every reason to want to put this small town in their rearview. There just isn’t more to it.”

  Scott turned to Billy who had yet to say a word. “Is that your take, too? Do you think my wife moved up here to leave in under a week?”

  “Strandville has that affect on people,” Maggie said.

  “I was asking Billy.”

  Jack spoke for him. “Billy doesn’t have a feeling one way or another.”

  Billy tightened his mouth and plucked a napkin from the table. He jotted something on it and covered it with his hand.

  “My truck’s out of gas,” Scott said to distract Maggie and Jack. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet. “I’ll have to get it here and fuel up.”

  Jack nodded. “Already taken care of. Towed it down here myself.”

  Billy palmed the note.

  “What do I owe you for the tow?” Scott asked.

  Jack held up his thick hand. “Nothin’ at all. Barely moved it a few feet. When Billy brought you in, we figured you hadn’t come from far. I took a ride to look for anyone else that might be hurt. Found your vehicle in the process.”

  “Are you sure I can’t pay you?” Scott asked.

  Jack shook his head. “Consider it a favor.”

  “Thank you, for everything. I’ll take fifty in gas.” Scott held up the bill folded in half.

  “I’ll pump,” Billy said. “It’s my job anyway.”

  Maggie taped a piece of gauze over Scott’s steri-stripped wound. “Are you sure you’re all right to drive?” She handed him two aspirin. “You’re still bleeding some.”

  “I’m sure.” He chased the white pills with the dregs of the water. He took his time standing up, feeling sturdier and less lightheaded than before. He said another round of thanks and headed for the parking lot. The cowbell jangled as the front door slammed shut. The sunlight magnified his headache tenfold.

  Billy stood with his back to the store. His hand was slack on the handle of the gas nozzle and $50.00 had already registered on the pump.

  Scott opened the driver’s side door and tried not to be seen speaking. “Who brought me out here, Billy?”

  “Max Reid,” he answered. “Same guy did this to my face. I can’t talk now.”

  “You think your aunt and uncle are watching you?”

  Billy nodded a slight yes.

  “My wife, Miranda, rented an apartment from an old woman named Iris. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  Another slight nod. “Widow Hinkle’s place. An ol’ two-family on Pike Road. White house, black shutters.” Billy hung the nozzle on the pump and closed the Hummer’s gas cap. Maggie appeared in Porter’s doorway. “Take care Scott, an’ good luck findin’ your wife.” He shook Scott’s hand and palmed him the folded piece of paper.

  “Thanks, again.” Scott nodded to Maggie and climbed into his truck. One turn of the key and the engine roared to life. He waited until he was on the road to open the note Billy handed him. He typed Pike Road into his GPS and unfolded the square of paper. It was a phone number and address and said ‘meet me at 9:00.’

  22.

  Miranda nibbled the dry, salted cracker. Nausea came in unpredictable waves and confirmed her worst fear. The pregnancy took. With her, morning sickness started almost immediately and would only get worse.

  Her heart sank and her mind raced with conflicting emotions. Logically, she wanted the whole thing over. Emotionally, she clung to the hope of delivering a healthy baby and proving the doctors wrong. Losing her daughter had pushed her further into darkness than she ever imagined she’d go. She had contemplated suicide, and had it not been for the antidepressants and Scott’s support, she most certainly would have done it.

  The sound of an electronic lock broke the silence and startled her. She pushed the crackers under her blanket and positioned herself so if it wasn’t Foster, whoever came in wouldn’t notice the restraints were loose enough for her to get free.

  The door opened and a young, Hispanic orderly wheeled in a tray of mush. He kicked a doorstop in place with the toe of his sneaker and pulled in a second cart of linens. She was thrilled not to see Reid, but wondered why they sent an orderly instead of security. They were setting her up to see if she would try to escape. She feared the whole thing was a ruse. If you run, Reid will catch you.

  She weighed her limited options.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Can you please help me?” In her experience, men were squeamish about whatever they thought went on in women’s bathrooms. The orderly didn’t say a word. He shook open a clean sheet and pillowcase and laid them over the cart. “Excuse me,” she said. “I really have to go.”

  He shrugged, the blank stare remaining.

  What doesn’t he get?

  Miranda kept her eye on the door.

  The orderly prepared a change of linens and pushed the tray of gruel closer to her. He wanted her to eat before changing the sheets.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  He shrugged again. “No English.”

  No English?

  He went to untuck the sheets from the foot of her bed.

  “No. No.” Her muscles tensed, afraid of him finding the clothing Foster had left her. “Bathroom.” She fidgeted to try and make him understand what she wanted. Again, he pushed the tray closer. This time, the edge of it pressed against her chest. He pulled the tucked sheets loose from the foot of the bed as nervous sweat dripped down her sides.

  The propped door might be the only chance she’d ever get at freedom.

  Careful not to pull her wrist free, Miranda reached to the end of her restraints and launched the bowl of mush at the wall. The brown muck splattered and sprayed the orderly.

  He threw his hands up and shouted at her in rapid-fire Spanish. Perfect. He wiped his face on the sheets he’d been preparing for her bed. He’d have to get more. He pushed the cart of soiled linens into the hallway and, in his frustration, left
the doorstop in place. The hard wheels of the linen cart thudded on the tile. His unintelligible mumbling grew faint.

  Come on. Come on.

  Miranda’s pulse pounded as she listened for anyone else that might be around. Another door clicked, the supply closet, and the ranting disappeared. Now! It was a split-second opportunity. She slipped her wrists out of the restraints, unfastened her ankles, and grabbed the scrubs from under the blankets.

  Her legs ached as she ran out of the room, the increasing pace sharpening the pain in her groin.

  You can do this.

  She would crawl out of the center if she had to, for herself and the baby. Not afforded the luxury of a bra, she crossed her arms over her chest and picked up speed. The supply closet door was ajar and the orderly’s back was to her. He bent over the sink and washed the mush from his face. His eyes were closed and he grumbled to himself in Spanish. She held her breath as she passed him, careful not to make a sound. Nervousness magnified her nausea, but she couldn’t stop.

  She moved quickly and cautiously to avoid a run-in with security, Reid in particular. Her feet, clad in terry-cloth slipper socks, ached and she struggled not to slip as she made her way down the tiled hall.

  Which way was out?

  The weight of interrupted sleep, of the changes in her body, and of living on crackers and scant amounts of mush made the short run seem like a cross-country marathon. She turned a corner and heard a loud crash. A door slammed into a wall. She had to get out of sight and grabbed the first doorknob she came to. It yielded and she prayed there was no one else on the other side.

  She ducked into the dim and windowless mechanical room and was overcome by an indescribable, putrid stench. Her newly hypersensitive gag reflex kicked in and, if she had anything more than crackers in her stomach, she’d have vomited. Her back muscles spasmed in a brief dry heave and she swallowed the mouthful of saliva.